Feathered Snag

Refilled the feeder,

a bright orange mesh,

sunlight warm on my hand.

Expected a flutter, a fresh

burst of movement, seed on the land.

Instead, a still thing.

A finch, small, brown.

Stuck by its wing,

bent sharply down.

Not breathing. No sound.

Its beak, a tiny split,

open, just a bit.

A grey, soft dust

on ruffled feather,

a final, rigid trust

in wire, in weather.

The spilled seeds,

bright against the ground,

a wasteful bounty,

all around.